What You Know
by ArtemiScribbles
Summary: This is a story I wrote ages ago as an antidote for Writer's Block. It's sort of a character study of teen!Dean from a 3rd person POV, an OFC. It's just a ficlet really. I hope you like it. p.s. It has nothing to do with PFK.


This is just something I had lying around. It's been posted before, by a friend of mine elsewhere. I'm only putting it up here now at the request of the same friend. She seems to think people will enjoy it and that I owe my loyal readers something for having been awol for so long. This has nothing to do with PFK, though, arguably, this incarnation of Dean is fairly consistent with my characterization of him in PFK. I hope you like it, and yes, hopefully I'll have some new PFK posted within the week.

Luv,

ArtemisS

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_There will always be some that stay with you; as students, as people. Some, you will never forget._

It was a cliché. You'd rolled your eyes when you'd heard it. But, even with only a scant two years of teaching experience under your belt, you still know that those words are the truest you'd heard in your year at teacher's college and they hadn't come form one of the instructors, but from your mother, who, at sixty, was a forty year veteran of the thinly veiled battleground people call the classroom.

Sometimes it was hard to predict, in those first, anticipatory moments when the names on the attendance list took on life, faces and bodies and shortly thereafter, personalities, which of the children quivering on the brink of adulthood before you, would take up a permanent residency in your heart or mind, or occasionally, both.

And sometimes, it was easy.

Sometimes it was the bright eyed girl who sat confidently in the front row and had her hand in the air before you'd finished asking the question. Genuinely eager without being pompous. Sometimes it was the shy, quiet child with the glasses who hid in the back, using his classmates like a shield, too awkward to speak up in front of the others, but you see him mouth the answers silently before any one else comes up with them, and you know without hearing them that they're always right. Sometimes it was the tortured little soul that wore his invisible battle scars in vivid, defiant Technicolor, hoping a teal Mohawk and a bevy of tattoos would distract you from the truth underneath. The one who took up scads of your time and patience while you chased them through the administrative system with late slips and detention cards. Who wrote poetry so dark and painful it drew blood from your soul when they did you the honour, the privilege, of seeing that part of them. Your reward for your refusal to quit the endless game of cat and mouse. For sticking when no one else did. And you cry for them when you read the words, and the tears stay with you too.

And sometimes, it's the bad boy with the hear of gold, with his careless arrogance and concealed nobility, sometimes veiled by pain or other times by fear, that catches at your heart. But _he_, never quite fits into any of those categories. He blurs the lines or slips between the cracks, belonging nowhere and everywhere at once.

His younger brother, with his shaggy hair and doleful eyes, Sam with his lighting bolt of a brain and smile that, if a bit hesitant, shines like a sunbeam when it breaks through; he's the kind of kid you know, and you know just as surely as with the other, that he's going to stay with you too. But in his case, you also know why.

Sam is whip sharp and insatiably curious. He has a somewhat checkered past. His transcripts tell you he's changed schools more than a dozen times since he started kindergarten but, his exceptional mind has mostly kept that from being an issue academically, which is impressive, to say the least. You're less sure about his emotional stability.

The Winchester files are thick, full of complaints, and some accolades, and a number of what are unhelpfully labeled" incidents"have been recorded with what, to you, seems a puzzling lack of detail_. _In short, what the folder actually has to _say _about this child, is pitifully little. They tell you that his mother died while he was an infant, there's little to no information about he father, most often characterized as "distant", "unsocial" and once simply as "absent", and the "incidents", those chronicled by more than a location and a date_, _seem mostly to include minor issues of violence that indicate he's had a bit of a rough time socially. Small wonder, it's hard to always be the new kid, especially if you also happen to be a child genius.

You're still a bit surprised though. Even at fourteen, Sam is big. Big enough to deter most detractors you would think. But there's something in the way he carries himself, in the forlorn way ratty jeans struggle and fail, to cover boney ankles, in hazel eyes cloaked by un-trimmed chocolate bangs that avoid yours, that speaks of wanting….and not having. Of a terrible desire to be accepted, and you understand that that makes him vulnerable in such a way, that his height just becomes another thing that makes him stick out. And yet, that's just the fleeting first impression, and what you thought you saw is masked with an expert speed that keeps you wondering, when he notices you watching him. He quickly chooses to appear happy and well adjusted, which is just another way of avoiding attention, and there's a darkness lurking there that you worry about surfacing when he's older. But over time you decide it isn't all an act. For now, at fourteen, you have him for grade nine English, he seems…..not exactly happy, but content, and never more so then when he's sitting in your classroom devouring every word you say about iambic pentameter and Pygmalion, while you study Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew. You have the feeling _he,_ has a lot to do with that too. With the surprising resilience Sam shows for a kid with his kind of past.

Maybe that's part of it, why you know the first moment you set eyes on him, that you're never going to forget Dean Winchester.

He loves his little brother, that's the first thing you learn about him for sure.

Of course, you don't exactly miss the fact he has a body designed to make women drool, the face of a fallen angel, and jade green eyes that remind you that the reason the angels fell in the first place, was that they had a propensity for sin. But it's the mouth that tells you he also has a talent for it. The way he uses it. That slow, lazy quirk of those outrageously erotic lips that sends heat curling through your system, the look in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he's doing to you, and to every girl in your classroom. It should infuriate you, and it does, but you're more angry at yourself than him because you also know that smoldering sexuality is as natural a part of him as the green of his eyes. He couldn't turn it off if he wanted to. You're the adult in this situation, you're the one that's supposed to know better, but none of your rules have ever applied to him. Not since the first time he walked into you classroom.

It was November when they'd transferred in. The Winchester brothers, Sam just starting out in his high school career while Dean was coming to the end of his. You'd gotten Mrs. Graxton's note about them, knew you'd be having them both, but you'd had Sam first. Maybe that's why Dean had taken you so off-guard. You hadn't been expecting him. Of course, you'd heard about him long before you'd met him. Grade nine English was period one, senior English was period five, the last class of the day, and since the first you'd heard of Dean came directly after Sam's first class, you'd had all day to be bombarded by the constant buzz of speculation and excitement.

It's Miri Preston who first mentions him. She comes tripping into class with a flush riding high on her cheeks and a tremble in her voice as she confides in her best friend Amanda, at a decibel that the rest of the class can't help but overhear, that _he,_

"Yeah, him, the gorgeous one with the car. He's that geeky kid Sam's _brother."_

You wince at the speed with which Sam has been labeled, _outsider_.

"Really!? How do you know?" Amanda had demanded.

"Cause I heard him say as much to Ryan Kule when he was hassling Sam in the hallway." Miri's voice dropped dramatically,

"Said he'd tie Ryan's nuts in a knot if he went near his kid brother!"

This is cause for considerable squeeing and it makes you role your eyes. You bet Sam _really _appreciated that. On the other-hand, you're impressed. Most big brothers would be too preoccupied with establishing their own niche in the complex, often vicious social strata of the highschool, to jeopardize their own chances of acceptance by taking on the reigning ringleader of the unforgiving masses over a minor insult to a younger sibling.

The tale of Dean's cool bravado has you fighting to replace your own smile with a disapproving frown. Ryan Kule is a mean-spirited bully and you're glad to know that someone is standing up to him, because he's also a rather large bully, and that's made it difficult to put a stop to his harassment of the younger students. It's one of those things that all the teacher's know about, but the little weasel is to sly to get caught in the act, and the kids are to scared to come forward themselves. You hope he doesn't cause trouble for Sam, and that Sam's champion hasn't bitten off more than he can chew. You already like your new, oversized puppy, and resolve to keep an eye out for him, though, it sounds like the brother has the situation in hand.

You decide that you like him on principle.

Anyone who threatens to tie Ryan Kule's balls together is okay by you.

You immediately feel guilty for that thought. You're a teacher and that kind of personal animosity towards a student is unprofessional, but what the hell, the kid is a prick and a goon and your job description only includes teaching him, not liking him.

Class goes on as usual and you try to impart some of the stirring genius of Keats and melismatic imagery to a bunch of bored sixteen-year olds, which you already know is pretty much a wasted effort, but that never stops you from trying. Twice, the whispered conversations you end with a well placed glare are about the mysterious "Dean".

At lunch you overhear a group of students standing by the large, glass cafeteria doors discussing him in those same, hushed, excited tones. The interesting thing is that it's mixed group, girls _and_ boys.

Christer Van Allen is gesticulating wildly with one hand as he expounds about something-or-other cylinder engines to his brother Kyle. Morgan Ritter and Alex Yu are talking about the earlier Ryan incident.

"You hear what he said to Kool?" demanded Morgan, using Ryan's self-appointed nickname.

"Yeah" said Alex shaking his head.

"Guy's nuts. Kool'll kill him."

Morgan's nodding in agreement.

"Still, he's got balls even to say it." Chimes in Doyle Aubery, and you try to pretend like you aren't listening closely to every word while you finish your bagel with cream cheese. Obviously they're discussing a second altercation, because you're sure that an exchange this lengthy can't have occurred outside your classroom door between grades nine and eleven English.

"I mean, he said the only thing he had for a bullying braggart like Kule was contempt. That and time, and that anytime Kule wanted to make good on his threats, Dean would be available, and not to worry about inconveniencing him, as it would take him less than a minute to swat a fly like Kule! And you know what else!?"

Doyle was almost shouting with excitement now,

"I believe him!" he crowed.

_Braggart_, _good adjective_. You think, and decide that you probably agree with Doyle. That's a hell of a boast for the already notorious Dean Winchester to be making if he can't back it up. You doubt that anyone related to Sam could be that stupid, and there's something in Sam's demeanor that makes you think he could be mighty scrappy, should the need arise, and it wouldn't be so surprising if his brother were the same.

The girls in the group are talking about Dean too. You decide from the gist of their comments that they must be able to see him from their current vantage point.

"My God. Who is that?" You hear. And,

"He's got eyelashes out to here!"

An exaggerated hand gesture from Jane Eurser punctuates her point.

"And the mouth…."

You shake your head as Lois King grasps for an appropriate adjective; vocabulary has never been one of her strengths. At this point you aren't yet aware that the decadent temptation of _this_ mouth, _should_ defy the descriptive prowess of a sixteen-year old. That it might, in fact, defy description altogether.

"It's the hands."

Amy Hood's voice is a rapturous, dreamy whisper and it has you shaking your head as you stand, deciding that you may just have to cave and sneak a peak at this paragon of manhood yourself, when the bell rings.

_Oh well_, you think. You only have one more period to wait before you meet the infamous Mr. Winchester for yourself.

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It's true that nothing could have prepared you. Not for Dean. You'd felt that the possibility that he could live up to everything you'd heard was remote, teenagers _do_ tend to exaggerate. Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined that he'd _surpass_ it.

He strolls in, his loose, long limbs covered in the soon-to-be-familiar uniform of beaten brown leather and well-worn denim, the smirk you'll come to know as his trademark firmly in place. You know by the way he commands the attention of every person in the room without even trying, including yours, damnit!, that he's the superlative example of his kind, whatever it might be. You can't quite classify it because you've never encountered anyone quite like him. Who charges the very air with something indefinable, by the simple fact of his presence. You try not to stare the way your teenage students do when he does nothing more remarkable than amble to the back of the room and take a seat in the centre of the last row.

That's when you see his face, and you forget not to stare.

You'll come to know it better. For example, from your place behind the desk you can't see the dusting of bronze freckles that help to make him look more his age, nor the length of the eyelashes Jane fluttered over, which soften the uncompromisingly masculine planes of his face, the high slash of blunt cheekbones and the strong angles of his chiseled jaw.

He's beautiful. It's as simple as that. He's as handsome as the prince in a fairy-tale and twice as arresting because there's a hint of eroticism and danger clinging to him that tells you he's as far from an untarnished paragon of valour as you could get. And yet, there's still something vaguely heroic about him. It's a conundrum that you'll spend the two months you know him trying to unravel. But you know right from the start that you won't succeed. You do know quite a few things about him before he leaves your class that day though.

It's one hell of a first impression.

You know that the magnetic charisma he exudes is the natural product of a self-possession and confidence rarely seen among those so young. For one, he's wholly aware of and at home in his body. And it's a hell of a body too. His skin is smooth and tinted gold, the perfect backdrop for those striking, sea-coloured eyes and the lush mouth, saved from looking effeminate by the shadow of stubble which roughens the line of his jaw.

You think at first that it's the bulk of the leather jacket that makes his shoulders seem so broad, but find that you're mistaken when he sheds it, and your breath sticks in your throat when you realize that it actually _de_-_emphasized_ the width of his chest.

Abused denim is somehow lent a hint of decadent luxury by virtue of sitting low enough on slender hips to provide a rich contrast to the inch of mouth-wateringly bronzed skin stretched taught over sleekly toned abs, exposed briefly as he shrugs the leather from his frame before sprawling in the chair, long legs stretched indolently under the desk. You sort of start to wish he'd put the jacket back on when you see the way his short-sleeved blue tee-shirt exposes the powerful muscles that cord his arms and shoulders, bunching and sliding fluidly beneath indigo fabric that stretches over his chest, the vivid colour a showcase for the unusual amulet he wears with brazen confidence. Loudlyproclaiming, in an exact reversal of Sam's behaviour, the fact that he's _not_ _like_ _them, _and he likes it that way. You feel heat rush into your cheeks because you're noticing him too much.

It takes you a minute to gather yourself because you're a bit disoriented. You've never been sexually attracted to one of your students before, much less bludgeoned so rudely over the head with out-right lust, and guilt and shame are warring with pure animal attraction and unadulterated shock. When you pull yourself together, you allow yourself to relax an iota. No one has realized your distraction, or that you haven't started class as you usually would, because they're all too busy watching Dean too. Then he catches your eye and you can't stop the flush from blazing into a full on blush, because his hot gaze says he noticed you noticing, and far from being upset about it, he's noticing you right back.

Your hands tremble with the sharp sting of humiliation and something you refuse to name. You drop you eyes from his, calling the class to order sharply. You don't look at Dean again for the remainder of the hour and a half. In fact, you try to avoid looking him in the eye for most of the rest of the week. You know it's cowardly, but you just don't know what to do with these feelings. They're wrong, you know they are, so you do what you always do. You start to pick them apart. Why him? Why this boy? And you know that it isn't just because you've never seen another male so attractive in your life. These are only the first of the thousands of questions you'll ask yourself about him, you won't get a direct answer to any of them, except the last one. But that's later. For now, you find yourself playing detective.

Fortunately, the best way to learn about someone is to observe them interacting with others, and you have plenty of opportunity to do that in class everyday. You see the way the other kids are drawn to him, as if he had his own gravitational field, pulling in everything that comes into his orbit. The boys worship him and the girls fawn over him. It would have made you dislike him, except that it's obvious he doesn't deliberately cultivate their attention although, he certainly enjoys aspects of it (mostly female, you can't help but note with a stab of something that you _refuse_ to even consider might be jealousy) with a natural cockiness but, even that runs more to devilish charm than conceit. He holds their spellbound attention with off-handed ease. A king without a crown.

You shake your head. He looks more like a rebel than a king with his worn jeans and boots, his scuffed jacket and strange bronze pendant. The rebel prince then, you decide, indulging your romantic side. The disgraced son of an aging monarch who becomes the stalwart defender of young Prince Samuel's besieged kingdom.

You roll your eyes at your own fancy. You need to get more sleep, but you can't. The mystery of Dean keeps you up, speculating and analyzing. By the second week, you decide that part of the reason you feel so compelled by Dean is that, unlike all of the boys you've taught before him, Dean isn't, he isn't a boy, he's a man. Or rather, he's caught somewhere between, with a man's power and responsibility, but hints of a boy's innocence still.

You come to this conclusion when you finally find the courage to look into his eyes again. And you see there the experience and the discipline of a man Dean hasn't lived long enough to become looking out at you from behind green irises, and know that it's the life and the contrast between the light and the shadows, that gives them their mesmerizing quality.

You know when you look into those jade orbs that not only is he a man much older than his years, but that he has been one for a long time already. Maybe even most of his life, and you instantly wonder what he could have seen, what he's had to do, that could make a child into an adult with such ruthless efficiency. It makes you sad and, it makes you appreciate the youthful mischief and indolence that are also an integral part of him, all the more. You find that you ache for him in many ways, and you're slightly less ashamed to admit that some of them are physical. Though, you still don't allow yourself to remember the dreams you have. The ones that leave your body fevered and throbbing to the point where you want to sob with the need to feel those wide-palmed, long-fingered hands on your body.

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It's in the third week that you really start to _like_ Dean. As a person. It's true, he doesn't put very much effort into your class, but it's obvious to you that he's every bit as smart as his brother. He's just not interested. He senses your frustration with him and soothes it with that shameless cheshire grin, letting it edge toward hedonic suggestion in a way he knows is inappropriate…..and distracting. It's his way of telling you not to sweat it, he's got it under control. And the infuriating thing is _that he does_. You have no doubt that when exam time rolls around, he'll pull off the pass and that'll be good enough for him, though you're dying to see what he could do if he'd just _apply _himself.

It doesn't exactly surprise you when you hear complaints that he's a real hell-raiser in the staff room, but you admit to being baffled by the charges because, in your classroom he's an ambivalent student, but a perfect gentleman. It's then that you start to suspect that while it's taken you all this time to _start_ to get a handle on your relationship with Dean, he's had you figured out from the first. It disturbs you to realize that he's the one in control. It's your classroom, it's important for you to be in charge, but you can't make yourself resent the way he challenges you. It's more a gentle irreverence then genuine insolence or disrespect, and in the end, you wind up doing it his way. You know you'd fight him if it came to it, you need to be the one with the power, but the problem is, you also know the disparity of experience between child and adult that imbues your position with it's authority, is missing between you, and what's worse, he _knows_ you know. But, for whatever reason, he isn't contentious and seems to be content with the current arrangement, where you are unacknowledged equals.

The realization that he's been calling all the shots is still unnerving though, and you get the urge to return to avoiding him. You quash it. You won't allow him to affect your teaching. When you calmly stare him down in class the next day, his easy smile is a camouflage for the slow caress of his eyes over your body. You're so surprised by the punch of heat you stumble in the middle of your sentence and have to start over again. When you look back at him, his expression is one of polite interest and you wonder if you imagined it. It's Monday again before you decide that you didn't.

The stairwells that connect the ground floor of the school to the science wing on the second, are glassed-in towers on either side of the north end of the building. The east stairwell looks out over the parking lot. This is where Dean can be found at lunch hour. He relaxes lazily, lounging like a big cat against the shinning metal hood of that black monster he drives, leaning back, letting the weak sunlight sink into and warm his muscles. You'd noticed that he was moving a little stiffly this morning, and there were faint, healing bruises on his jaw and brow bone. You notice it again now, the purple shadows marring his temple and the side of his cheek are more visible in the natural light and your first, furious thought is child abuse, but you dismiss it almost immediately. You just can't imagine him standing for that kind of humiliation. But you're not so sure about emotional abuse. Sometimes you catch him with a pained or worried expression in his eyes, looking like he's a million miles away, and you wonder about the father that no one knows anything about. You think that he seems to be balanced on the edge of some precipice, some choice. But it doesn't seem like he's conflicted about outcome, he's already chosen to step off the cliff, but he seems to be waiting for something…… In those moments, he reminds you of Hamlet, torn between his duty and his conscience, his heart and his head. You smile and shake your head, knowing Dean wouldn't appreciate the comparison, thinking of the way he'd snorted, a dismissive puff of air through flared nostrils, when he'd summed up Shakespeare's greatest tragic protagonist as being,

"Such a girl."

"You just have to suck it up and do it!" He'd muttered, impatient with the hero's tortured indecision and resulting inaction.

Yeah, Dean was a man of action you thought, as you stop by the enormous window to study his form.

He's alone, preferring voluntary solitude to the adoration of the masses. Only Sam is welcome to share the space on the Impala's hood, and today he seems to be otherwise occupied. You allow yourself to hope the younger Winchester has found some friends. And frown, knowing that Ryan Kule is still bothering him, looking again towards Dean. Only to realize that he's looking back. And there it is again. That knowing grin working it's way leisurely across his face. The eyes. You know where they're looking, _how_ they're looking, even though you can't see them from here, and for a moment you stand there, transfixed, as heat blossoms between your thighs and on your cheeks.

That's when you run away.

On your way through the foyer, you see Ryan Kule trip Sam as he passes by. You scowl as you head over to intervene, and your frown deepens when Sam assures you that nothing is wrong with a note of desperation in his voice. You don't push because you know you'll probably only make it worse, and crouch to help him pick up his books instead.

He gives you a quick, tight smile of thanks before mumbling that he'll be late for History and hot-footing it towards the south wing. The sound of Ryan and his hoodlum friends laughing as Sam hurries past them makes you clench your teeth, and you find yourself wondering when Dean is going to take care of this problem. You no longer have any doubt that he can. Ryan is taller than Dean by a good two inches, and he's on the football team, in good shape, but he doesn't move like Dean does. Dean moves like a predator, all calm, almost careless, control, and you get the distinct impression that he's the kind of guy who'd take on the devil himself for the pure, fiery hell of it. No Dean can definitely take Ryan, and you're pretty sure that's the only way this is going to be resolved, because Sam obviously isn't talking. You find yourself hoping that you're there to see it.

You are.

It's Friday and you're heading down that same stairwell, looking out over the parking lot, when you see the ring of bodies. You know that that's never a good sign. You're start hurrying when you identify the two lone forms at its centre as Ryan and Dean, when you see Ryan swing one of his gorilla-like arms at Dean's head. The heels of you sensible, black patent-leather pumps make a sharp staticco over tile and onto pavement as you rush out into the cool fall air. At the sound of your voice the gaggle of onlookers automatically gives way, the bodies parting so you can get in close to the action. For a moment you just stand there as relief grips you and the breath you didn't know you were holding whooshes out.

Dean isn't lying bloody on the ground.

You watch with surprised admiration as he brushes off Ryan's next lumbering charge with a deceptively easy motion of his shoulders. He doesn't seem to have done anything but, Ryan goes flying to the ground nonetheless. Heaving to his feat, the larger boy once again tries to swing a Dean. This time Dean just ducks away with practiced ease, once more allowing Ryan's own momentum to carry him to the asphalt. As you watch, there is a sharp, crystalline moment of clarity where you know with gut-wrenching certainty, that this is not Dean's first fight.

Nor will it be his last.

And you know by the dismissive way he stands, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, hands hanging loose at his sides, that he's toying with Ryan, and for a second, he scares you a little.

When Kule gets up this time he's slower and there's blood on his face. You wonder how many dives he took before you got here and realize that you've been standing around gawking with all the rest. Shaking yourself, you step into the ring and prepare to use you best, Teacher Voice.

You never get the chance.

You'll never really know if it was that Ryan didn't realize that you were there, or if, in his furious need to get to his enemy, he just didn't care, but the next thing you know, he's back on his feet and he's rushing towards Dean. The only problem is, you're in his way.

You don't see Dean move, your attention is focused solely on the blow you know is coming too fast for you to avoid.

It never lands.

You blink in shock when instead of the bruising impact of Ryan's fist, you register what feels like a hot steel band wrapping around your middle, and then you're off your feet and spinning, as Dean scoops you up with one arm, turning and tucking you against his chest, out of harm's way. You only get a fleeting chance to catalogue the sensation of having the warm, hard wall of his chest pressed into your back and side before he's letting you go and pushing you away, out of further danger. And when he turns back to Ryan, it's obvious he's not playing anymore.

You can't see the look in his eyes, but you can imagine it from the way the other students instinctively draw back. This time when Ryan strikes, Dean flicks aside the blow with his left hand and delivers a single short, sharp jab under Ryan's chin with his right. The larger boy goes flying backwards and lands hard. He doesn't get up.

The next couple of minutes are a blurr of yelling voices as accusations and curses are flung through the air. By the time you arrive at the Principle's Office, your brain is working again. You bat irritably at the hands that want to press you into a chair. You've noticed that Dean is standing on his heels, legs braced apart, hands shoved deep in his pockets, totally nonchalant and utterly _silent_. He hasn't said a word to defend himself in the face of Ryan's mewling accusations or the VP's ranting. The penalty for fighting is an automatic, week-long suspension, but it isn't fair and you know it.

You go to bat for him.

You tell Mrs. Graxton that you saw Ryan throw the first punch, you tell her how Ryan has been harassing Sam, you tell her how Dean protected you. It sort of works. Ryan gets a week's suspension and Dean gets two days and detention everyday for the rest of the week. With you. He tosses you a casual wink as he strolls out the main doors of the school, seemingly completely unaffected by the afternoon's events, and you wonder what you've gotten yourself into.

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You miss him those two days that he's gone and when he returns on Wednesday, you almost find yourself looking forward to detention. At three o'clock sharp he swaggers into the room but doesn't take up his customary place. Instead he sits front row centre, right in your face. It's too close for comfort. You know that you're going to have a hard enough time keeping your eyes on the marking you've brought as it is.

You decide the best defense is a good offence and, checking your watch, you say in your most professional voice,

"Your hour begins now, Mr. Winchester."

He smirks and you know he can see right through you. Swallowing hard, you ignore the pull of heat in you belly and stare blankly at the grade eleven mid-terms on Julius Caesar.

"Thanks."

The word is unexpected, and it breaks the silence and your concentration. You start in surprise at the sound of his deep voice. It's soft and rough and makes you shiver. Of course you've heard it before, but he almost never speaks _to_ you. He just _looks_. You don't think you could handle it if he was looking at you _that _way now, so you answer without raising your head.

"For what?"

"For sticking up for me. It—" he pauses and there's something in his voice that has you looking at him in spite of yourself, just in time to see him roll his shoulders uncomfortably and glance away before finishing,

"It doesn't happen very often."

You're speechless, so you just say,

"You're Welcome." And feel like an ass.

"Not that I would have minded getting out of school." He adds after a moment.

"But I don't mind missing out on the vacation days, since I'm spending the time with you. I like the scenery." The admission is frank and the look he gives you from under those ridiculous lashes is one of sensual appreciation.

You clear your throat and ignore the second part of his comment.

"Living with the consequences of your actions is important, but so is fair-mindedness. It wasn't fair for you both to suffer the same punishment since your crimes weren't equal. Ryan's was far more vicious and deliberate, and therefore, his consequence should be more severe, which is exactly what I told Principle Graxton. Discipline has to be equitable or the lesson looses its value. Though—" You smile,

"It seems that in your case, you may find this the harsher sentence."

He grins again, pushing his chair back so it's balancing on the hind legs.

"I love it when you use big words." He drawls, his voice taking on a husky timbre as he teases.

You give up all pretence and simply say,

"Dean." In a warning tone.

All four legs come back to the floor and he sighs.

"So you don't think what I did was so bad?" He asks, off-hand and casual, accepting the boundaries you've set.

"While fighting is never the answer, I think your motivations and the fact that he started it, are mitigating factors."

"So it's not because I rescued you?" The teasing tone is back.

Once again, you don't look up because you know he'll be able to read how his actions affected you on your face. He'll see the ghost of the breathless thrill, the pleasure and yes, the pride, you took in the easy power of his body, in his care for you.

"No." You reply firmly, and it's a pointless denial because you both know it's a lie.

"But, Thank you."

You do look up when you say that, because no matter the underlying connotations and how uncomfortable they make you, the nobility of the act deserves the gratitude, and you need to look him in the eye when you express it.

He holds your gaze and nods slowly.

"I guess we're even."

You smile.

"I guess so."

There's a moment of silence, and then,

"You're wrong though."

You frown in confusion as you gaze at him,

"About what?"

"Fighting." He replies.

"Sometimes, it _is_ the only answer."

He sounds very certain.

"That's not true." You offer the token protest.

"Yeah." He nods his head emphatically,

"It is."

His eyes get that far away look.

"There are some things…..some people, that only understand violence. For example, that Ryan punk."

Now his eyes are back on yours,

"Strength is the only language he understands. It's the only kind of power he respects. You could have talked at him, suspended him, or put him through as many rounds of that touchy feely counseling crap as you want, and it still wouldn't have stopped him."

"But you think you did?" You challenge him, even though you find his assessment astonishingly insightful.

He nods confidently.

"I did. He won't bother anyone again because now he knows, there's always someone better, stronger, faster, and it's no fun to be on the loosing side."

You think he sounds like he knows far to much about violence and the psychological dynamics of power for a boy of eighteen, but then, this would be a totally inappropriate conversation to be having with a boy of eighteen. Especially since you secretly agree with him.

You realize that he's done it again. The man in him reaches out to the woman in you and you just forget that he's only a kid.

"Do your work" you tell him firmly, gesturing to the text on his desk with an imperial wave of your pen.

He complies and you spend the rest of your hour in silence but, you know it's only because he's choosing to respect the barriers you're determined to keep between you. It's already embarrassingly apparent that he could easily circumvent them, but he doesn't, he just looks at you while you pretend not to notice.

You do though. You always do.

You feel his eyes on you and spend the next forty minutes trying not to show how much it affects you. How heated and sensitive your skin is; how heavy and warm your breasts feel; how you can't help but imagine what it would be like to feel the lush contours of his mouth, the wet heat of his tongue, on them. You bite your lip as you feel your nipples harden in a rush, and pray that he can't see the tell-tale peaks beneath your shirt.

As always, you're left aroused, unsatisfied, and feeling foolish. So much so that you're glad to see him go at four, but can't stop the shiver that travels over your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake, as he walks to the door, his eyes tracing the bare skin at your throat and up to your mouth. He lets his head turn, keeping his eyes on you until the last possible second, and the relief you feel when you're finally released from the dark promise in his gaze is so great your groan echoes in the empty room.

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Another reason that you like Dean so much is that, no matter how much pleasure he gets from making you squirm, and you know that he does, he can also be surprisingly sweet and considerate. And you must be even more transparent then you thought. Your reluctance to spend more time alone with him is somehow clear to him, because when he shows up for detention on Thursday, he's got Sam with him. He trails his big brother into the room looking apprehensive, but your warm smile of greeting seems to assuage his trepidation at being there. You don't give a damn that his presence goes against policy.

In a matter of minutes the two of you are gabbing away about Blake and the Romantic Poets and you're promising to lend him your illustrated copy of Blake's complete works. His enthusiasm is palpable. He's talking a mile a minute, so fast you can barely keep up, and when Dean shakes his head and calls him "Poindexter", Sam fires back with a plucky self-possession that surprises you, and you can't help but think that this is the most animated and at ease you've ever seen him, as though he draws confidence from Dean's presence. When you break out the Lewis Carroll poems and start explaining portmanteaux and Jabberwocky to Sam, Dean rolls his eyes and retreats to the back of the room with his text, mumbling something about "Geeks of the world unite", but you notice that he smiles every time Sam laughs.

He brings Sam again on Friday and you're so pleased that you don't even chastise him for reading a car magazine instead of doing his math homework, while the two of you work on Sam's history essay. That afternoon the brothers treat you to a glimpse of an easy, and you can't help but think extraordinary, fraternal rapport that is embodied by a casual, almost rhythmic exchange of dire insults. You're left feeling privileged to have shared in the powerful and private bond, the invisible current of loyalty and affection that runs palpably beneath the snark. It seems so obvious, that they're a unit, that they don't need anyone else, even so, you know instinctively this interaction, the "realness" of it, it's not something they allow many "outsiders", to witness . When they finally leave, Sam packing the illustrated Blake into his bag as though it were made of glass and worth millions, you're sorry that it's over and they won't be back on Monday.

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Dean is quiet all the next week in class, but he watches you with an intensity that's new and disconcerting. Every time you glance up, there he is, touching you with those hot eyes, trailing them down your body, letting them linger on the curves of your breasts and the place where the hem of your tweed skirt rides up the pale skin of your thigh when you sit, not bothering to hide his perusal. You don't know what to do about it, or the fact that when you stand to point to the blackboard, you have to blink away a vision of Dean on his knees between your legs, looking up at you while his hands urge your knees apart and his tongue licks a hot, wet path up the inside of your thigh.

What you do know is that you go home every day with a damp, moist ache between your legs. It's getting ridiculous and it _has_ to stop. You decide that if he hasn't cut it out by Monday, you'll have to have a word with him about it. But you have no idea what you'll say. Of course, at this point, you don't know that by Monday, Dean will be gone.

You realize that something is wrong immediately. Sam comes to class with red-rimmed eyes and returns the book, even though you protest that he can keep it as long as he wants. But he insists on giving it back and looks away, refusing to give an explanation. When he loiters after class, waiting for the room to empty, you really start to worry. When he walks quickly to the desk after the last student leaves and pulls you into a sudden, tight hug, bumping his angular chin against the top of your head and enfolding you in his awkward, coltish limbs, squeezing the breath out of you so that you can't say anything, before bolting out the door, you get scared.

The first thing you do when you walk in the door fifth period is look for Dean. He's there, slouched in the back like always, watching you with burning eyes, but the relief you feel is short-lived. There's something different about him today. The cocky, dissolutory air is missing from his swaggering persona. Instead he seems brooding and darkly stoic.

He does exactly the same thing as Sam, waiting in his seat until the room empties and it's just the two of you. You've got your back to him, wiping down the boards, when you hear his chair scrape on the linoleum. You take a deep breath and swallow hard, turning to watch as he approaches slowly. He's got an apple in his hand which he holds up for your inspection before placing it carefully on the corner of your desk, the corner of his mouth catching in a conspiratorial grin that underlies the fact that your relationship has always been more than strictly student/teacher. You don't know what sign or signal he's waiting for, but you must give it because he continues forward.

This time he doesn't stop where rules and courtesy demand though. Doesn't stay on the other side of the desk, the indivisible line between teacher and student. He walks right by it, walking you back until you're pressed between the wall and his body. He crowding you, but he hasn't reached out for you yet. His body is just sort of leaning into yours, trapping you, his hands on either side of your shoulders.

"D-Dean" you start to say, but you don't know if it would have been protest or encouragement. It doesn't matter, he doesn't let you finish.

He's so big. His size is overwhelming, and you wonder if you ever really realized just how big and hard he is. You think that the contrast between you should maybe scare you, but it doesn't, because he's soft too, and he's so close that you can see it. You can see the long lashes shadowing already darkened eyes, you can see the dusting of freckles, and you can feel his heat seeping into you and his heart beating against your breast. You're surrounded by the hard, masculine power of him and it makes you feel deliciously small and soft, and incredibly, erotically, _female_. You try to resist the urge to rise onto your tiptoes and get closer to the lure of his body. Of his perfect, tempting mouth hovering near yours. His hips and thighs and the hardness between them is pressing into you, and you tremble with the pleasure of it.

He bends his head but his lips don't meet yours. Instead, he rests his forehead against yours and _just looks, _and the intimacy is staggering. Your breath tears harshly and you see the leap of emerald heat in the green depths of his eyes at the sound, as his gaze sinks lower to your mouth.

"We're leaving." He whispers it against your lips, and there's something in his voice, a hint of a drawl that you could never quite pin down, that thickens with the want beneath the words, it's the familiarity in the phrase leaves you cold. It's something he's said before, something he's said often. Too many times to count. The lashes sweep down when he feels your response, as if he can conceal the pain, the regret. But you both know he can't. You don't ask where he's going or why, because you know that, like Sam, he won't tell you. You just stand there, not quite kissing, breathing each other's breath, and your heart clenches sharply in your chest at the reality of imminent and permanent separation. The full acknowledgement of what you've suspected since you walked into class today and saw him.

This is Dean's goodbye.

And oh, _oh, _it hurts so much more than it should and it's that pain and the bittersweet knowledge that you're _too_ late, that keeps you immobilized, allowing him liberties that go far beyond the physical.

His right hand comes up to sink into your hair and he inhales deeply, as if memorizing your scent.

"_Fuck_."

He's still whispering and his eyes lock onto yours again.

"I wish I'd made a move." He murmurs and his other hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb dragging slowly over the soft, full curve of your lower lip. The caress elicits a small sound from you and your mouth instinctively follows his hand. Brushing little kisses over his fingers. He groans softly, strokes his calloused knuckles gently down your cheek.

"Why didn't you?" You breath the question against his palm, your voice as soft as his.

He chuckles quietly as he nuzzles against you, and lets his hand trail from your face down your body until your fingers can tangle with his. You sigh softly at the contact. This isn't anything like the firestorm you'd expected from him. This is blatantly sexual, yet fiercely restrained, wicked, yet sweet, a strange and precious product of the unique, man-child status he alone holds. And it consumes you.

"I'll regret not doing it." He admits.

"Now, there isn't time." You make a small sound of protest and he grins, he's arrogant enough to enjoy your dismay.

"You didn't want it."

Your surprise must show on your face because he elaborates with a little laugh, trailing his lips gently over the curves of your brows and down your nose as he does.

"Not that you didn't want _me_. But you didn't want _it_. I was your student, you'd have felt guilty, and damned if I know why I should have cared--" He pauses, sounding genuinely confused, and you tremble when his mouth resumes its slow journey along your jaw.

"But I guess, I didn't want you to regret me." He tells the sensitive hollow below your ear in a whisper that makes you tremble as both his lips and his words caress you.

Your heart catches painfully at the expression on his face when he pulls back, a bewildered sort of tenderness, and you give him the only thing that you can.

"I'll never forget you." You promise and he smiles, his eyes glowing with warmth as well as heat.

"I believe you." He whispers, trying for cocky but you can hear something like desperation underneath, and then, pressing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth, he leavers his body away from yours and disappears out the door. He doesn't look back.

You look at the shiny red apple on the desk and wrap your arms around yourself against the loss of his warmth. Of him, and wonder why it was so important to him. What kind of regrets did he carry that could make him deny the demands of his super-charged teenaged libido to keep you from sharing them? What the hell kind of teenager even thought like that?

But _that_ question, you find, you know the answer to.

It was the act of a boy who grew up so fast, he didn't realize what he was missing until he saw his little brother living it. Who, at eighteen, had enough man in him to value the innocence and gentleness of youth and to see, too late, he'd been bleeding his away so long it couldn't be salvaged or recovered. He would never be who he might have been, though you can't imagine him any other way, and he's not quite yet who he will become, _what_ he will become, you can't help but think, though you don't know where exactly the thought comes from. You do know that necessity will soon see extinguished the last spark of the child within him, or it would have, if the man in him hadn't chosen to give it to you. And you'd keep it, the gift of Dean's unselfish innocence, and even when the glitter of it was finally suffocated by whatever darkness hunted them, he and his brother, even when it was utterly gone from him, it would stay. _He, _the in-between Dean that was walking into the wider world to die with a smile on his face, he would stay, with you.


End file.
